


The Prodigal

by owlmoose



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Post-Canon, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-06
Updated: 2011-06-24
Packaged: 2017-10-20 05:05:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/209048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlmoose/pseuds/owlmoose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten years after the Blight's end, Zevran finds an old friend in need of aid. But can you ever really go home again?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for the Redeemer ending.

"A pint of your finest, my lovely, and make it snappy." Zevran slid onto the barstool and leered at the bartender, a pretty girl of about twenty. She returned his smile warmly, then pulled him a glass. He drank deep of the refreshing ale, finishing half the glass in just a few swallows. The last leg of his journey to Starkhaven had been a hot and thirsty one, but the reward would be sweet.

Setting down the glass with a thump, he swiveled around on his seat and took the measure of the tavern. Intelligence-gathering, that was his new specialty, taking people's secrets rather than their lives; he found the work almost as exciting, and he slept more soundly. And if the occasional situation got out of hand, well. For good or ill, such incidents came with the territory. As long as he provided the goods and covered his tracks well enough, his employer knew better than to ask too many questions.

Today, the tavern was filled with the usual characters: farmers and workmen enjoying a pint with their lunch, a minstrel playing away by the fire, young women indulging in gossip. Even the requisite sot was on hand, already in his cups despite the hour, slumped at a dark table, a bottle in his hands and another empty at his feet. There was something not quite right, though, Zevran thought with a frown, and then it came to him: the man seemed far too young to be the town drunkard. Too young, and too fit, he added silently, with a moment of admiration for the fellow's well-tuned arms. Curiosity got the better of him, and he turned back to the bartender .

"You see that poor bastard in the corner?" Zevran waved in the man's general direction. "What's his story?"

"Ah, the sad sack." The girl shook her head, ruefully. "He's a small-time mercenary, a solo operator. Hunts down bandits, the occasional darkspawn, that kind of thing. He comes here most days, to drown his sorrows I assume, although no one knows what they are. He doesn't talk much, see, not unless he's arranging a job. There's a rumor that he used to be a Grey Warden, can you believe it?" She sighed. "Shame, really, a fine man like that, letting himself go to waste."

"A Grey Warden?" Zevran raised his eyebrows, and then he almost fell off the stool. "No!" He whispered it to himself, a thrill of horror racing down his spine. "No, it cannot be!" He leaned forward, peering closer, taking in the dark blond hair, the broad shoulders, the square jaw... and the impossible became probable as the man looked up.

Zevran whirled back to the bar and busied himself with his drink. Had he been noticed? He thought not -- the man's eyes were bleary, focused into the distance -- but still he waited, watching out of the corner of his eye until his target looked away, gaze turned back onto his bottle. Only then did he stand up and walk across the room, blending into the background until he reached the table and the man's side. Once there, safely out of earshot of the bartender, covered by the sound of chatting and singing and clinking glasses, he cleared his throat.

"Alistair?"

He craned his head around at Zevran, eyes narrowed. "And what if I am?" It was the same voice, all right, and the same eyes, though shot through with red from the drink, and sunken into the dark hollows of cheeks rough with stubble. His hair had grown out into an unruly mop, his skin had gone sallow, and there was a meanness to his musculature that Zevran did not remember from before. And then there was the smell: Zevran had noticed the miasma of alcohol right away, but there was a sour, musky undercurrent to it, too, of unwashed sweat and stale vomit. In short, he was a mess. No wonder Zevran had not recognized him right away.

"Do you not know me?" Zevran tipped his head to the side. "It has been a long time, to be sure, but I would hate to think I might be _that_ forgettable."

Alistair blinked, and his mouth turned down in a frown. "Zevran? What are you doing here?"

"Running an errand for the Warden-Commander. I'd tell you more, but then I'd have to kill you." The quip did not draw so much as a smile, and Zevran sighed inside at the change in his former companion. "May I join you?" Without waiting for an answer, he drew a chair over from the next empty table and sat, placing his glass on the table. "I would ask how you are, but I suspect I already know the answer."

Alistair looked away, at the floor. "If you're here to make small talk, you might as well leave now. I've no interest in catching up; not on the old times, nor on the new. If you're here for a drink, well." He waved a dismissive hand at the bottle in front of him. "Then stay. I'm good for that much, at least."

Zevran said nothing, remembering. He had been there at the Landsmeet, an observer in the shadows on the day Alistair had left their company for good. When their leader had spared Loghain's life to make him a Warden, something broke in him, all the light in his eyes sputtering out as he had made ready to leave.

"Don't go," she had said, pleading, a hand reaching out, stopping just short of his arm.

But Alistair had only looked away. "I can't." And then he had gone, turning his back on her, on all of them, trudging out of the hall and out of the story, leaving nothing behind except the wreckage of two hearts, shattered in pieces on the flagstone floor. She had stared at the closed door for too long, her expression one of utter desolation; when she finally returned to the discussion at hand, she'd composed herself back into the decisive commander, but Zevran still saw the difference, on that day and every one after. The joy had gone out of her, and now, looking at Alistair, his hands wrapped around his bottle, his cheeks flushed and his back bowed, Zevran rather thought joy kept itself far from this place, too. Whatever had broken was still not mended, and might never be, without help.

"One drink," he said. "But only if you tell me what you are doing here, alone, derelict from your duties."

"My duties?" Alistair snorted. "The sword on my back and the bottle in my hand: that's all I have a duty to, now."

"Oh?" Zevran raised an eyebrow. "Pardon me if I speak out of turn, but somehow I received the impression that a Grey Warden took his vows for life."

Alistair's gaze hardened. "Do not presume to speak to me of a Warden's duty, a Warden's honor. I thought I knew what those things were. And then..." His hand tightened around the bottle, knuckles white, and he lifted it to his lips and drank, eyes closed as he tossed his head back.

Zevran shook his head. "Alistair. The man has been dead for ten years. Surely you could find some way to let it go."

"Let it _go_?" The bottle landed back on the table with a thump, and Alistair stared across the table at him. "Loghain is dead, yes. A dead hero. Made the ultimate sacrifice to stop the Blight, to save Ferelden and all of Thedas, that's what they say. His name is spoken with reverence." His eyes flashed with rage, and the bitterness in his voice could have curdled cream. "Does anyone speak of Duncan so, remember him as a hero? Or the other Grey Wardens who fell at Ostegar? No. No one remembers. No one, except for me." He grabbed the bottle and flung it against the wall; it crashed, leaving only shards of glass in a puddle of whiskey. "And so, to answer your question. What am I doing here? I... am drinking. So I don't have to remember. So I can sleep without dreaming. So I can live with myself for letting it all happen." He propped his elbows on the table and let his forehead fall into his hands, fingers buried in his hair. "Now leave. Me. Alone."

"As you will." Zevran finished his ale, though he had no stomach for it now, and stood. "But I must tell you one thing first. You are not the only person who remembers. Of this, I can assure you." Alistair bowed his head more deeply, and Zevren let a hand fall on his shoulder. "I expect be in the city for a week's time. And so, exactly one week from today, I will come by this tavern. If you are here, I will take it as a sign that you are ready to talk." He squeezed Alistair's shoulder lightly, then let go. "I understand if you cannot forgive. Some wounds cut too deep to ever truly heal. But I think she would at least like to know that you live. Be well, my friend, and perhaps I will see you soon." Without another look back, he left.

-x-

One week later, Zevran found himself at the same table, in the same tavern, ostensibly looking at the reports he had gathered and nursing his drink, but really he was waiting. And hoping, though his hope dimmed with each passing minute. He had not, he supposed, been too surprised not to find Alistair waiting for him. But he had more than half-expected to see him eventually. Had he been in Alistair's shoes, simple curiosity would probably have driven him here.

But the appointed hour had been and gone, and nothing would be served by dawdling further. With a sigh, Zevran finished his drink. After straightened his papers and securing them in his rucksack, he tossed a few silvers on the table and left.

And then, in the courtyard by the stables, there he was. Dressed in worn plate armor, a shining sword and a somewhat battered shield bearing the Grey Warden griffon on his back, and leaning against the post of the paddock, his expression was wary, and a sheen of sweat rested on his brow. Zevran took a few steps toward him, and he stood up straight.

"I don't know why I came," he said.

"We can talk about it inside, if you like." Zevran gestured to the door.

"I think... I had best stay out of taverns for a little while." Alistair glanced up at the sky and winced. "Although the sun isn't doing me much better." He swayed a little on his feet; Zevran moved to catch him, but he regained balance on his own. "Maker's breath, I need a drink."

Zevran shook his head. "I have a better plan. Alcohol is a poison like any other, yes? And so, like any other, it is susceptible to antidotes. Come with me, and I'll craft one for you."

"I would be most grateful. I think." Alistair's next question carried a faint air of astonishment. "But why would you help me?"

"You question my motives for providing aid to an old comrade-in-arms?" Zevran grinned up at him. "Should that not be its own reward?"

"For you?" Alistair cast him a sideways glance. "No."

Zevran laughed. "Well, you may believe me or not, as you prefer, but I do happen to care about your welfare. But in truth, it is as much for her as for you, or for myself."

"For her." Alistair sighed. "You must mean... Elissa." He flinched as he spoke the name, the pain as fresh on his face as it had been ten years ago.

"Indeed," Zevran replied with a nod. "I still work for her, you see, and we remain great friends. And I think she would like it if I took care of you."

Alistair raised an eyebrow. "Friends?"

He scarred the word with disbelief and sarcasm, and Zevran spread his hands in response. "Friends," he confirmed. Well, most of the time. She had come to him, that first night in the field on the way back to Redcliffe, looking for comfort and a place to sleep, and he had been more than willing to provide both, on that night and many nights that followed. But her heart had never truly been in it, and they had broken things off amiably not long after the Blight's end, although they still sought one another's company from time to time. Still, best not to go into too much detail -- it would only confuse the poor boy. "Now come with me."

-x-

They had ridden a short distance from Starkhaven, then made a rough camp to take care of the business of sobering up. Alistair had half-fallen off his horse twice on the journey, his hands shaking against the reins, and so when Zevran finally called a halt, he dismounted in relief. Only pride kept his knees from buckling as he hit the ground; he grabbed at the water skin and drank, and though it quenched his simple thirst, it did nothing for the emptiness that clawed at his belly or the pounding in his head. He longed for something stronger, just a sip. A nip to dull the pain that was his constant companion. It took all his will not to give in.

Oblivion was his craving, and it was oblivion he had sought: the temporary peace provided by the bottle, the final peace of falling in battle. The latter had eluded him, and so he killed himself by degrees instead. After Zevran had left the tavern, Alistair had not moved for a long time, contemplating these things, seeing himself as Zevran must have seen him, a broken husk of a man, stinking of whiskey and regret. He forced himself to stare into a mirror that night, and he misliked the face that stared back.

And so he had spent a week of long nights in his hovel, wrestling with the question of what to do next. Zevran's words weighed on him, and the face that he drank to forget hovered at the edge of his mind. He ached to see her, to touch her cheek and hold her close, even as his stomach twisted in angry knots at the memory of her betrayal. He hated her still; he loved her yet; he could not say which emotion was the more powerful. But one truth overrode them both: Zevran's visit had shocked him out of his fugue state. He had only been able to continue on this path when he could ignore the cliff it was leading him over. Now he looked past the edge, saw the rocks and the churning sea that awaited him at the bottom, and the vision stopped him dead in his tracks. Perhaps returning to Ferelden would be a mistake, but he had to make some change in course. Even a catastrophic change was preferable to none at all.

And so here he was, huddled by a small fire, arms wrapped around himself and shaking, but though his body rebelled, his head was clear for the first time in years.

"You do not look so well." Zevran stared down at him, concern written plain on his face. "It will take me some time to prepare the antidote; can you hold on for a little while? Would you like a nap, perhaps, or something to eat?"

Alistair laughed, a sharp, mirthless sound. "I think even the smell of food would not go down easy. And there's only thing that brings me sleep, anymore. Thank you, but I will manage. Just..." His mouth twisted into a frown. "Don't take too long about it, all right?"

Zevran patted him on the shoulder. "I will be as quick as I can. Meanwhile, just try to rest."

With a nod, Alistair drew even tighter into himself, closed his eyes, and willed time to pass.

-x-

Zevran looked up from his cauldron and wiped the sweat from his eyes. It was hot work, brewing antidotes over an open fire, but now it was done. He took a gulp of water from his canteen, then pulled four crystal flasks from his pack, which he set down on the ground with great care, balancing them on the flattest spot he could find. After nestling them in the dirt to hold them steady, he poured the vile-smelling yellow liquid out of the cauldron and into each flask, taking care not to spill any. Once the last drop was away, he put the cauldron aside and stoppered the bottles, holding one up to the light. Yes, this was right -- just the perfect level of clarity, not a smudge of sediment left.

Satisfied, he turned to his patient, who had barely moved; still crouched by the fire, Alistair had wrapped a dirty grey blanket over his shoulders and clutched it to himself despite the warmth of the day, shivering violently. He stared into the flames with focused intensity, and Zevran could swear there was a green tinge to his temples.

"It's ready," he said, and Alistair looked up with a jerk, startled. Zevran walked around the fire and knelt next to him, holding out the first flask. "Drink it all, in a single draught if you can manage it. This is not a brew meant for delicate sips."

Alistair took the bottle and examined it, cautious. "It looks like piss." He pulled out the stopper, then jerked away, rolling his eyes in revulsion. "And it smells even worse! Do I have to?"

The petulant tone reminded Zevran so much of Alistair's occasional reactions to having wounds stitched in the field that he had to smile. Perhaps his old friend was still buried somewhere in that ravaged shell after all. "It is a strong build-up of toxins that your body must fight, so it takes a potent brew to counteract them. The sooner you drink, the sooner you will sleep, and when you wake, you will feel better."

Alistair wrinkled his nose. "I suppose I haven't much choice other than to trust you." Closing his eyes, he drank the entire contents of the flask in a few swallows, and then he tossed it away into the bushes, shuddering. "Ugh. That has to be the most disgusting thing I've ever tasted, and that includes darkspawn blood. You had... better be right... about..." The tonic took hold even before he could finish the sentence; his eyes drooped shut, and as his body relaxed, he lay down on the ground, breathing heavily. Zevran spread the blanket out over his prone form and pulled out a second one, still folded up, to slip under his cheek as a pillow. He watched until he was certain that Alistair had slipped into complete unconsciousness; once Alistair's breathing had eased, Zevran leaned closer and ran a gentle hand over his hair. "It is good to have you back, my friend," he murmured. "I only hope it is not too late."


	2. Chapter 2

Alistair did sleep, as promised, though it was not an easy night of rest; dimly, he knew that he was tossing and turning, hot and cold by turns, throwing off the blanket and fighting when someone came to cover him back up -- usually it was Zevran's face looming over him when he cracked his eyes open, but sometimes he fancied he saw Elissa, her brow lined with worry, and once it was Arl Eamon, of all people, tucking the blanket over his shoulders. For the most part, though, he wandered in dreams: restless visions of darkspawn and demons and dead Wardens and Loghain-- Loghain most of all, glaring at him with those cold dead eyes, riding on the shoulders of all Ferelden as he was borne away on a sea of cheers, children laughing, maidens throwing roses at his feet. And Alistair could do nothing, bound in chains to watch from distant shadows, seething at the injustice of it all. But then, toward the end, the darker scenes faded away, replaced by moments of peace. The stables of Redcliffe Castle, the lake, a tent filled with shadowy firelight, and when he finally opened his eyes to wake, the gnawing in his gut was lessened.

Sitting up, he looked across the remains of the fire to see Zevran, sitting cross-legged as he poked at embers under a coffeepot. The sun was already halfway up into the sky --Alistair had slept much of the morning away. At the sound of motion, Zevran lifted his eyes and his chin. "Ah, you're awake. How do you feel?"

"Better." He rolled his head around his shoulders, testing; his neck was stiff, but not more than a night spent sleeping on the ground would suggest, and the headache was-- not gone, exactly, but more distant than before. "True to your word."

"You look better." Zevran cocked his head to the side. "But the real question is this: do you still need that drink?"

Honesty compelled Alistair to responded with a nod. "But not nearly as badly as I did yesterday." He closed his eyes for a moment, probing his body for clues to his physical state; he had grown so out of touch with any need beyond thirst that it took some thought. Once he had completed his inventory, he opened his eyes and looked back at Zevran. "And I do believe that I'm hungry."

Zevran grinned. "Then you're on the mend. If you'll pack up camp and prepare the horses, I'll finish making breakfast, and then we can be on our way."

"All right." Alistair stood and stretched, rolling out the kinks in his back. Tonight, he would have to remember to pull out his bedroll _before_ drinking Zevran's vile concoction. "Where are we bound?"

"Kirkwall Port," Zevran replied as he pulled out a small pan and a rasher of bacon. "From there, we catch a ship for Amaranthine."

Halfway through rolling up the blanket, Alistair paused. "And then we make straight for the Wardens, I suppose." He turned, and Zevran was looking at him, brow raised. He sighed. "Well, best to get it over with." He lowered his eyes. "I... still don't know why I've come. Not truly. I may not be able to go through with it, in the end. This time, I'd rather not make a promise I'm not sure I can keep."

The bacon hit the pan with a sizzle, bringing with it an aroma that made Alistair's mouth water. How long had it been since he'd eaten fresh-cooked bacon? Far, far too long. "I'll not ask for any promises," Zevran said. "You've been honest with me; how can I ask for more than that? If you change your mind, we part ways, no hard feelings. But I would prefer to know that, if nothing else, you won't allow yourself to fall back into the state in which I found you, ever again."

Alistair picked up the rolled blankets and secured them on the back of his saddle, then lifted the saddle onto his horse. Only when that task was accomplished did he turn back to Zevran. "We'll see," was all he could bring himself to say.

"Fair enough." Zevran shrugged, then flipped the bacon over. "The coffee should be ready; help yourself."

-x-

Five days later, Alistair was still moving forward, now under the power of a boat crossing the Waking Sea. He stood at the bow, hands resting lightly on the railing; normally he did not care too much for sailing, but he had found himself unable to go below decks as he scanned the horizon, looking for any hint of the cliffs of Amaranthine.

Amaranthine. Ferelden. Home.

The ride across the Free Marches had been uneventful enough -- they had met no one, neither friend nor foe, and they had spoken little during the journey. Each night they had stopped to camp, and each night Zevran had given him a dose of that horrid antidote, sending him into fevered dreams, almost as bad as the ones he had suffered during the Blight. He shuddered at the memory of the cursed concoction, a cure that was in some respects worse than the disease. But he could not deny that it was working; every day, he craved the drink a little less, and finally, upon their arrival in Kirkwall, he had thrown away the emergency flask he had hidden in his saddlebags, untouched.

They had lingered a day in the port city. Zevran had a ship waiting, but still he had insisted that they visit barber, bathhouse, and armory before setting sail. And, as with the antidote, Zevran was right. After a haircut, a shave, and a whetstone for his blade, Alistair felt more fit to face the next leg of their journey, even if a small stone had taken up residence in the pit of his stomach.

"There it is!" The voice was soft in his ear, satisfied, and Alistair turned to see Zevran, pointing to the dark smudge that had appeared in the distance. "Do you see it?"

"I do," Alistair responded, heart leaping into his throat as he recognized the green bluffs that he had last seen ten years ago. That day, he had been looking behind him with tears in his eyes and a burning emptiness where his heart belonged. Hopeless, friendless, with no thought of anything but getting as far away as possible. He had vowed never to return, but that was an oath he did not mind breaking. "It's beautiful."

"Spoken like a true native." Zevran clapped a hand on his back. "Welcome home, my friend."

"Home." Alistair rolled the word around in his mouth, testing it, uncertain of how well it fit anymore. He looked over at Zevran, who had started toward the stairs that led below deck. "So is it? Home, I mean. Have you lost your affection for Antiva, after so many years away?"

Zevran paused with his hand on the stair railing and turned around. "There is a saying I heard once. 'Home is the place that, when you go there, they have to take you in.' I will always think fondly of Antiva, but who there would take me in? I found that kind of home here, in Ferelden, as friend and ally to the Wardens. And I promise you, Alistair." His eyes softened. "Whatever you are imagining they think of you now, the Grey Wardens will take you in." And with that, he was gone, leaving Alistair alone with the salt air, the distant cliffs, and his unquiet mind.

-x-

The ship docked and the passengers departed, and Alistair grew visibly tense as they left the city and walked toward the keep. Zevran stole glances at Alistair along the way and took stock of his charge. In appearance, he was a thousand times improved over the drunkard Zevran had found in Starkhaven. Neatly-trimmed hair and beard, cheeks a healthier shade than before, eyes no longer bleary with drink -- although now he wore a guarded expression and a furrowed brow instead. Still, Zevran was proud of what he had accomplished in only a few days. He could only hope that the inner changes had kept pace with the outer.

"That's our destination." Zevran paused, and pointed through the trees and up the hill. "Vigil's Keep, headquarters for all the Wardens in Ferelden."

Alistair shaded his eyes from the noonday sun as he looked up. "These were Howe's lands."

"Mm, indeed. Granted to the Grey Wardens by the Queen, in one of her first acts after the defeat of the archdemon. Ferelden's Warden-Commander serves as Arl of Amaranthine."

"And so Howe's defeat at Cousland hands is complete." Alistair raised an eyebrow. "Fitting. She holds his seat at the Landsmeet?"

Zevran spread his hands in an open shrug. "Technically. But Weisshaupt prefers her to stay out of national politics. Preserving the neutrality of the Wardens and all. They'd rather not have a repeat of what happened with Dryden."

"Understandable." Then Alistair turned his gaze back to the Keep, unmoving as he stared up at it. After a long moment, he sighed. "All right. Let's get this over with. Lead the way."

-x-

Vigil's Keep was surrounded by a small collection of houses and outbuildings; a few people milled about, but none of them paid Alistair any notice, though some waved to Zevran as they passed. The gate to the central keep was open, and the single guard acknowledged them with only a small nod. Alistair felt his shoulders relax, just a little. Maybe he wouldn't be put on display after all.

"Hoy!" Zevran called out, stepping into an open foyer, putting a quick end to Alistair's hope for a discreet entrance. The space was bustling with people, a dozen Wardens and squires and servants, and a hush fell over them. Every single eye turned to look, including the woman who stood in the archway that led further into the keep. Her armor gleamed silver in the early afternoon sun, a griffon rampant across the breast. She wore no helm, so he could see her face as she spotted him and froze in place, her eyes opening wide, the blood rushing from her cheeks.

Zevran turned to him as well, and he twitched his hand so that only Alistair could see. "Go on," he muttered.

Alistair's pulse raced ever faster, his heart knocking against his breastplate with such force that he was sure everyone could hear. If he had a draught to calm him-- no. He would have to do this on his own. Taking a quick breath, he stepped forward and presented himself to Elissa Cousland, Warden-Commander of Ferelden. A few paces away, he stopped, brought up a closed hand to his breast, and let it rest there in salute as he bowed his head.

"Greetings, Commander," he said, tone careful, formal. "Alistair, once of the Grey Wardens, returning for duty. If you will have me."

"Warden." Her reply was calm, betraying none of the shock he had seen on her face. "You are welcome here." He lifted his chin, and she was looking straight at him. "However, I'm afraid I wasn't informed of your impending arrival, so I have no place prepared for you." She glanced up and over Alistair's shoulder, and her eyes narrowed, just a touch. Alistair glanced backward and saw the most likely target of her ire: Zevran, who rocked back on his heels, expression smug. Then she looked back up at Alistair. "It may take a little time to arrange one."

He straightened. "I understand. If you have no need of me--"

"Oh, no, never that." Elissa shook her head. "As you can see, we have grown since you were last in Ferelden, but we are still rebuilding the order. Every hand is needed, especially hands as well-seasoned as yours. Samiel?" A young elf who had been standing at her heels stepped forward. "Please see Alistair to the trainee quarters, where he can bunk with you for the time being."

"Yes, Commander." The elf nodded, then gestured to Alistair. "This way. Up the stairs, and to your right."

"We'll talk more later," she said, softer now. "But I have duties to attend to first. You understand."

"Of course," he replied with a nod. He turned to follow the elf; as he did so, he saw Elissa make eye contact with Zevran and summon him with a toss of her head. That look, he remembered all too well: Zevran was in trouble. He almost smiled at the thought, despite his jangling nerves.

"And, Alistair?"

He stopped, turned to face her, and saw that she was smiling -- a small smile, but a smile nonetheless.

"Welcome home," she said.

He lowered his eyes. "Thank you."

She turned to go, and he did the same.

-x-

"So, how do you like your surprise?" Zevran settled down sideways in the chair across from Elissa's desk, tossing his leg over the arm, looking up at her as she stood over him, bracing herself against the front of the desk with her hands.

Her glare could have melted iron. "Why did you not send word?"

"Because then I would never have seen the marvelous look that passed across your face when he walked into the keep." He grinned, and then ducked as she swatted at him. Sitting back up, his expression sobered. "Two reasons, Commander. First, there wasn't time. It's not as if I was out looking for him. I could have sent a bird from the docks, I suppose, but that would not have provided much warning. But more importantly, I could not be certain he would actually make it here." He turned to sit in the chair straight onward, leaning forward to the desk. "I found him in Starkhaven. In a tavern. Dead drunk, and quite likely dying of drink. It was not a pretty sight." He shook his head. "I helped him as best I could, and physically, he is much improved. But he is not yet right. Skittish as a Chantry maid, uncertain of who he is and what he wants, and still very, very angry."

"Loghain." Elissa sighed. "You know, despite everything, I sometimes wonder whether he didn't have the right of that."

Zevran shook his head. "You were using the best tools available to you at the time. Alistair's reaction was understandable on an emotional level, but in terms of how best to fight the Blight? Converting Loghain to your cause was the logical, tactical decision. Now, whether you can bring Alistair to see that, I cannot say. But he is here, at least, and seems willing to listen."

She stood up and walked around the desk to sit in her large wooden chair. "Perhaps. So. The prodigal Warden has returned, and now I need to figure out what to do with him. I will take your word that he is better, but he seems haggard to my eyes. Too thin. Is he in fighting trim, do you know?"

"Unsure. We had no occasion for battle in the Free Marches, and in truth, given his condition, I would have avoided trouble rather than wading in. But he's been working as a mercenary without getting himself killed. So he must be at least capable, still. As to whether he'll actually stay..." Zevran shrugged. "Only time will tell. But you should speak with him. Sooner rather than later."

"All right." She took a deep breath. "I should get it over with, I suppose, as soon as I have some free time. I have to say, I probably don't know what I want out of a conversation any more than he does."

Zevran chuckled. "All the more reason to get on with it, then. You'll over think it otherwise."

She smiled in return. "Thank you, Zevran. I am glad to see him alive and-- well enough. When we had no word, I all but convinced myself that he'd made straight for the Deep Roads after leaving Denerim. Sometimes, it's good to be wrong."

"Indeed," Zevran replied with a nod. He leaned back in his chair. "Now, shall I report on the mission I originally left Ferelden to complete?"

-x-

Alistair lay back on the bunk that the trainee Warden had found for him before leaving without a word, skittering away as though from some fearsome mythological beast. He wondered how they thought of him now: the forsworn Warden, the deposed prince, the fool who had walked away from a throne. Or If anyone thought of him at all.

A knock on the doorframe; he sat up, and there she was, changed out her armor and into more casual garb. Alistair was glad that he had done the same, and even more glad that Zevran had purchased a new shirt for him in Kirkwall. To call his old one grubby would have been a understatement. "Thank you for waiting," she said. "Perhaps you'll join me for dinner?"

He nodded. "As you wish, Commander."

It was a refuge, this formality, and they both knew it; from her expression, it seemed she found it safer, as well. She turned, and he followed, just as he had always done. Ten years had changed very little, he thought as he watched her walk. She carried herself with the same confident air, head high, eyes alert. And, of course, she was still the most beautiful woman he had ever known. A bit softened around some edges, harder around others, but the passage of time had not dimmed her light in the slightest.

They went down the halls of the keep, past the dining room and into her office, where a serving maid stood at attention. Elissa spoke to her quietly, and she nodded, then slipped off.

"Have a seat," Elissa said, gesturing toward a square table with four chairs, and Alistair obeyed. She followed suit, sitting across from him, and her shoulders rose with a deep breath, then fell. "There is so much to say that I hardly know where to begin. But I feel I must start with this: I'm sorry." She lowered her eyes. "I never meant to hurt you."

"Well, you did." Alistair managed not to snap at her, but he could not avoid putting weight behind the words. "I couldn't believe what I was hearing. To disregard Loghain's betrayal of the Wardens and give him a chance to redeem himself... how could you?"

She raised her gaze back to him. "I didn't understand, then. Duncan was good to me. He saved my life at Highever, and I grew to consider him a friend. I was shocked and saddened at his death. But he didn't mean to me what he meant to you. And the other Wardens of Ferelden were little more to me than faces. I lost a possible future at Ostegar; you lost your brothers. I should have seen that, and been more sensitive to it." She looked away. "I still think I made the right decision. But I went about it in the wrong way. Alas, some truths come clear only with hindsight."

A rap on the door interrupted her, and she sat up. "Come!" The door opened, and the maid came in, a large serving tray balanced on her hands, piled with meat and potatoes and mead.

Once her hands were free, Alistair handed one mug back to her. "None for me, thanks," he said. She raised her eyebrows in surprise and looked to Elissa for confirmation; on the commander's nod, she took it away with a bow. When the door closed again, Elissa looked at him, questioning. "After I left, I sailed for the Free Marches," he explained. "Once there, I crawled into a bottle and spent the next ten years at the bottom, until Zevran finally pulled me out. It seemed a safe place, but it wasn't particularly good for me, and I'm not eager to go back."

"I am pleased to hear it." Her tone was sober. "But why the Marches?"

"I had thought of Orlais, to join their Wardens at Montsimmard," he said. "But... I couldn't do it. Here I was, a Grey Warden, born to fight a Blight, and what did I do when faced with one? I ran the other way." He shook his head, looked down at his plate, appetite suddenly fled. "How could I face them? So I faced nothing. Not even myself. And I still-- I don't know if I can."

Her reply was soft. "You're facing me."

"Am I?" He lay his hands on the table, examining the dirt that was still lodged beneath his fingernails. "I suppose. I'm here, at any rate. Although, as I told Zevran, I'm not entirely sure why."

"Whatever the reason, I'm glad." And then she reached forward, her hand covering his, gentle and warm and so so right; he turned his hand over to cup their palms together, curve his fingers around her wrist, oh Maker he missed her so much-- and he pulled away, decisively, and stood up.

"No." He turned away. "I-- no."

Her chair scraped over the floor, and he heard her stand and walk across the room to him. "I don't wish to push you. But I do ask that you at least hear me out. There are things you need to know. Once you have heard them, you can stay or go as you will."

"Fine." He straightened and crossed his arms, then turned to look at her. "Speak, then."

She was silent for a moment, organizing her thoughts. When she finally did speak, it was with the air of someone who has rehearsed a speech many times over, and only then did Alistair realize that she was nearly as nervous about this encounter as he. "Before we continue, I need to know: Did Duncan ever tell you the whole truth about why Grey Wardens are needed to fight a Blight? About our true purpose?"

"You mean, beyond our connection with the darkspawn, and having the sure knowledge that an archdemon has risen?" Alistair thought for a moment, then shook his head. "If there is more, I was not told of it."

Elissa sighed. "I thought as much. The more I consider it, the more it seems to me that Duncan kept this from you for the same reason he kept you out of the fighting at Ostegar. I don't think he had any intention of letting you get within ten leagues of that archdemon."

"Figures." Alistair grunted. "Damned royal blood. It's brought me nothing but grief."

"Perhaps." She shrugged. "Well, regardless, for you to understand why I do not regret my choices, you must understand this: in order for an archdemon to be truly slain, it must be killed by a Grey Warden. If anyone else does it, the beast will die, but the soul of the Old God will survive and infect some other darkspawn, making it almost impossible to find and eliminate. But if a Warden casts the killing blow, then the soul will seek out the Warden, and they will destroy each other, dying together. Do you see?"

"I... I think so." Alistair furrowed his brow. "So when the people speak of Loghain's sacrifice..."

She nodded. "They are speaking quite literally, though in the main they do not know it. He resolved to take the killing blow from the moment Riordan told us the truth, and that was the purpose that drove him until he cut the creature's head off. And this is why I stand by my decision to allow Loghain to join us. If we had executed him at the Landsmeet, then you would be dead as well. Or I would. One of us would have had to sacrifice ourselves to end the Blight. Although..." She caught herself for a moment, then shook her head firmly. "No. It would have been you or me. And if it makes me selfish to value your life over the prospect of bringing Loghain to justice, then so be it. I cannot feel otherwise."

He opened his mouth, then closed it, letting his arms fall to his sides. When he finally could speak again, his voice felt very small. "This is a lot to take in."

"I know." She swallowed, taking a step back. "I do believe Loghain won the day for us, in more ways than one. This is probably hard for you to hear, but it is true. I don't know if I could have won that battle without him."

"Humph." He frowned at her. "You don't give yourself enough credit. Those were _your_ armies, your blood and sweat that gathered them, and you were the one they followed. Not Loghain."

"True, but I hadn't the slightest idea what to do with them." Elissa turned away and paced the length of the room. "I was in command, but Loghain's were the plans I executed. Whatever else you thought of the man, you cannot deny that he was an experienced general. Could we have cut through the horde to get to the archdemon without him? Perhaps, but it would have been a damned sight harder."

Alistair crossed his arms again. "So, clearly, you made the right choice." The bitterness crept back into his voice. "You needed Loghain, and you didn't need me."

She stopped, her back to him, her head drawn up straight, her spine stiffening. Then she turned, deliberately, and lifted her chin high. Something flashed in her eyes, and Alistair's mouth went dry. "You're wrong," she said. "I needed you. More than you can ever know."

The quiet intensity of her words cut straight to his heart. He wanted to cross the room, take her in his arms, kiss her, hold her forever. But something kept his legs frozen, and instead he slowly shook his head. "I... I need to think about all this. But still, I thank you for telling me the truth. May I beg my leave for the evening?"

Did he imagine the brief look of disappointment that crossed her face? Either way, the moment was gone; she responded with a brisk nod. "Dismissed, Warden. We will meet on the morrow, at which time you will receive your first assignment."

With a quick salute, Alistair departed the room, in more turmoil than ever before. He wanted that pint of mead and a bottle to chase it, could almost taste it on the back of his throat, feel the comforting burn as it went down, oh so easily. He stood in the hallway, back to the wall, resting his head against the cool plaster, until the urge passed; when he felt safe to walk again, he made for his bunk instead.


	3. Chapter 3

Zevran made himself wait for an hour before poking his head into the commander's study. He was not surprised to find her at her desk, brooding over a sheaf of papers by lamplight. He quietly closed the door behind him and took a place in front of her desk, standing there without speaking for some minutes.

She looked up, started as the papers slipped out of her hands, then let out an exasperated sigh. "Don't _do_ that," she said.

"Sorry," he replied, spreading his hands with a grin. "Force of habit. So, how did it go?"

"About as well as I could have expected." Elissa gathered the sheets back into their stack and squared them along the short edge, then the long, then the short again. "He didn't run away screaming, at any rate."

"Not bad for a beginning," Zevran agreed. "And you?"

"Did I run away screaming?" She quirked a brow, and Zevran had to laugh. "Your analysis was quite correct. He's still holding on to his anger, not to mention a wellspring of self-pity. The anger, perhaps, I could live with, but I fear he won't be of much use to me until he lets the pity go." She shrugged. "But if he wishes to serve, then we'll find a place for him. The Wardens turn away no one who is qualified, and Alistair is certainly that. Someone is coming from Montsimmard tomorrow; perhaps a tour in Orlais will help ease him back in."

Zevran caught the wistful note in her voice, but he did not press. "I leave the decision in your always-able hands. Good night, Commander."

-x-

It was a long, sleepless night for Alistair, with neither his preferred poison nor its cure at hand. He tossed and turned, first curling up on his side with his eyes closed, then flipping over on his back, staring at the slats of the bunk overhead. Three trainee Wardens shared this space with him, and the sounds of their breathing -- and an occasional loud snore -- were both comforting and annoying. He had been alone for so long. Would the old, familiar rhythms of communal life ever be comfortable again? Only time would tell. If he decided to stay.

The churning of his mind kept him up just as surely as the discomforts of the body. The idea that Elissa had traded Loghain's justice for his own life bothered him, like a sore tooth he feared to prod. And that was the trade she had made, knowingly or otherwise; the truth was clear in his mind, one pure peal that cut through the cacophony of his muddled thoughts and emotions. If it had been the two of them, at the end, he would have taken the final blow. His life for hers, and for Ferelden, without question.

But his honor, and hers? Justice for Duncan and the Wardens, and everyone else Loghain destroyed? Was that a worthy trade? Of that, he was not so certain. But she saw it as such, and the thought gave him pause. To know that she still cared about him, even after his desertion on the eve of battle, touched him in a place he had thought long turned to stone. Although the memory of that day still angered him, could bring a white-hot flush to his cheeks when he thought of it, he could no longer hate her for it. And he knew now, beyond all doubt, that he still loved her. Madly, deeply; always and forever.

But was love enough? Could love cancel out a blood debt owed to the man who had saved his life? What kind of a man would he be, if he traded love for honor? Did she love him? Would she even take him back if she did?

The questions circled in his mind, unending, and the chilly light of dawn came as a relief. Not long after, while eating breakfast alone in the mess hall, Samiel came with a summons back to the Commander's study, and he made haste there. She was already inside, awaiting his presence, flanked by Zevran and an older Warden, his long dark hair shot through with white.

"Good morning," Elissa said, and rose to her feet. "Did you sleep well?"

"Well enough," he lied. "So. Have you decided what is to be done with me?"

"Greetings, Alistair." The stranger stepped forward with a nod. "My name is Philipe, and I serve as the second at Montsimmard. Elissa and I have discussed your situation and agree that no disciplinary action is necessary. If you desire a return to active duty with the Grey Wardens, you are welcome to do so immediately, either here or in Orlais."

Alistair bowed his head. "Thank you. I will make a decision soon."

"Very good." Philipe tapped his chest. "I return to Orlais in a month's time, and we can travel together then, if that is your choice."

"Meanwhile, you are assigned to Amaranthine, and my command." Elissa glanced at Zevran. "And as your first duty, you will travel with me to Denerim. Zevran brought tidings from the Free Marches that I need to share with the queen, and a small detachment of Wardens will travel with me, you among them."

Alistair did not flinch, but he wanted to. The Royal Palace at Denerim? It was the last place he wanted to go, ever again. But he took a deep breath and steeled his resolve. "As you command. When do we leave?"

"This afternoon. Can you be ready? What is the status of your armament?"

"My weapons are well maintained. But I could use new armor."

She nodded. "Very good. Samiel will show you to the armory. Be ready in the courtyard after lunch."

-x-

After Alistair left with the Orlesian, a step behind the elf trainee, Zevran turned to Elissa. "Are you certain this is wise? Did you see the look on his face when you mentioned Denerim, and most especially Her Majesty? It seems like leading a lamb into the teeth of a dragon."

"I'm certain." There was no hesitation in her response. "I want Anora to have your intelligence as soon as possible, and I would not leave him alone with strangers just yet. Besides, there is something in Denerim he needs to see."

He thought, and then he realized. "Ah. The monument."

She nodded. "I want him to understand that our brothers were not forgotten. I suppose I could simply tell him, but seeing it will be more powerful, I think."

"It is fair reasoning." Zevran looked at the half-open door. "But he has a stubborn heart, does our Alistair. Whether it will be enough for him to begin to forgive, I cannot say."

"Nor can I." Elissa tipped her head to the side and looked over at him. "But I'm not sure what else to try." She turned away from the door and strode back toward her desk. "Now leave me, please; I must prepare to meet with the queen. You will be at the meeting point?"

With a small sweep of his hands, Zevran made a bow. "Indeed, my lady. And most eager to see where this journey may lead us."

-x-

The sun had just passed the midday mark when the team assembled at the statue of Andraste just outside the entrance to the Keep. Alistair had come straight from the armory, where he had been outfitted with a standard set of Warden's splintmail -- lighter than he had worn in years, but more adjustable than the heavy plate he usually favored, and easier to wear on a long march. And he tired more quickly these days than he wanted to admit. "We haven't had a darkspawn outbreak in months, so this should be more than sufficient against anything you're like to meet on the road," the armorer had said, and Alistair had agreed.

Two other Wardens were already waiting in the courtyard when Alistair arrived: an elf mage, and a tall, thin human with bow and quiver slung casually over his back. The human man stepped forward first, hand out in greeting. "Pieter Bryland," he said, as Alistair took his hand in a cautious shake. "Distant cousin to the Brylands of South Reach. Nice to meet you. And this is Venyel."

The elf inclined his head politely. "Greetings."

"Hello," Alistair said, nodding in return. "I'm Alistair. Um, I suppose you knew that." He winced at his own stupidity, but Pieter only smiled.

"Vigil's Keep is a small place -- secrets rarely keep here for long." He waved vaguely toward the open portcullis that hung over the stairway. "The commander should be here soon. We're well-outfitted with common stock, but if you need anything special from the merchants, you'd best pick it up now."

Alistair shook his head. "Thanks, but I'll be fine." He hadn't much in the way of coin, anyhow. He glanced up the stairs that lead into the keep. "Do you know anything about the mission?"

Pieter shrugged. "Escorting Elissa to Denerim. I don't know her errand; she rarely confides such details to her escort teams. It's part of the rhythm of life at Vigil's Keep: Zevran goes out and finds some information, we take the commander to the Queen, and she reports. Pretty routine."

"What is Zevran's role here?" That had been a source of curiosity to Alistair for days now, but he hadn't quite been able to bring himself to ask.

Venyel and Pieter exchanged a look; it was Venyel who answered. "Officially, he's an advisor to the commander. In practice? He's her spymaster. He hasn't been Joined, but he might as well be a Warden in every other way. Has quarters here, answers to Elissa. But he's not really in the formal chain of command."

Alistair nodded, and refused to speculate about their expressions. He had enough other things to worry about without adding imaginary jealousy into the mix. "What is the command structure, anyway? When I-- left, there were all of two of us; she gave the orders, and I followed them." _All but one._ "I imagine things are more formal now."

"Not as much as you might think," Pieter replied. "Elissa has a second -- Nathanial; he's leading a mission to Orzammar right now, so you won't meet him until after we get back -- but other than that you'll find that we tend to work in loose teams rather than under a strict hierarchy."

An awkward silence fell among them, and Alistair was relieved to see Elissa and Zevran descending the stairs a moment later. "Ready to leave?" She looked around the small group, and took in their nods. "Very well, let's be off." Alistair picked up the largest of the community packs -- he might not be good for much else, but he retained enough strength to serve as a pack mule -- and set off, falling instinctively into the front of the formation to shield the commander and the mage, leaving Zevran and the bowman to guard the rear. He caught Elissa's eye, she nodded her approval, and they were off.

-x-

Trouble found them after only two hours on the road, and it came upon them without warning -- the party turned a corner and surprised half a dozen wolves, circling a sheep, teeth bared. Alistair pulled up short to listen, but there were no human voices about, nor the sounds of other sheep, only the one as it bleated its terror at being separated from its flock and in mortal peril. Without hesitation, he pulled his sword free, unhooked his shield and charged forward with a bellow, making straight for the wolf he judged to be the alpha. "Come and get me, you furry fiend!"

The beast broke from the pack and curled itself as if to spring, but before it could finish its leap Alistair slammed into it with his shield, knocking it back to the ground; he followed with a slash of his sword that caught the wolf across its muzzle, and it yelped in pain. He raised his sword, ready to finish the enemy with another thrust-- but before he could bring the point down into the wolf's neck, he was hit by a blur of fur and claws and teeth. Now he was the one on the ground, with just barely enough reaction time to swing his shield around and bring it between himself and the wolf's snapping jaws.

With a mighty heave, he pushed, using the shield to lift the wolf off and fling it away; it landed on its feet and lunged for him again. Someone was shouting, off in the distance; had the shepherd returned, come for his wayward charge? Alistair did not have time to check, not with two wolves advancing on him, not to mention the wounded alpha, struggling to its feet now to join its fellows, and he swung out at the closest with sword, then shield, right to the base of the neck, and it fell with a whimper. He turned to the next, and was startled to find that it, too, was down, arrows piercing its side. Where had those come from? And why could he sense magic, a cold blue flower blooming in the distance?

The shouting voice resolved into words: "Get back, spell incoming, get _back_!" and Alistair's legs obeyed, jumping away from the alpha and its remaining pack mates just in time to not be caught by a blast of icy mist. The wolves froze in place, their shaggy fur encrusted with frost, and Alistair took the opportunity to charge in from one side as Zevran appeared as if from nowhere, daggers whirling. Elissa had entered the fray as well, to his left, sweeping through the enemies with her own shield. A few more bashes, a few more arrows, and it was done. Alistair yanked his sword free of the alpha wolf with a gasp and stood still for a moment, breathing heavily with exertion as he surveyed the dead creatures that surrounded him -- including, unfortunately, the sheep, which lay on its side with its throat torn out -- and wondered what had just happened.

He looked up and saw Elissa advancing on him, her brows knitted together in anger, most likely asking herself the same question. "Sorry," he said, as he realized the precise nature of his error. "I forgot I wasn't alone."

"Damn right you did." Elissa sheathed her blade, glaring at him. "You put yourself at unnecessary risk, and exposed the rest of us, when our archers and our mage could have taken care of the wolves, or at the very least softened them up before we moved in. Next time, you wait for orders. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Commander." Alistair bowed his head. "I apologize. Won't happen again."

"Good." Her voice softened. "You're hurt. Venyel!"

Only then did Alistair feel the throb of pain -- in the frenzy of battle, he hadn't noticed the teeth that had torn into his arm and the top of his shoulder, just above the mail shirt. He lifted his hand to the spot, and it came back covered in blood. "Oh." Just a little higher and the wolf would have caught him full in the neck, and... "Oh," he said again, a little more softly.

Her answering smile was tight as Venyel approached. "I just got you back, all right? I'd like to keep you in one piece for at least a little while longer." With that stunning admission, she turned away and left him to Venyel's care.

"Hold still," the mage said; Alistair dragged his eyes away and complied, instincts created by a lifetime of following commands finally kicking back in. "It's not bad. Let me just..." He laid one hand on Alistair's injured arm, another on the neck wound, and murmured a few words; he felt Venyel calling on the magic, and then the warm tendrils of healing energy seeped through shirt and skin, gently whisking the pain away and mending the ragged edges. "There." Venyel dropped his hands and stepped away. "All better. But no sudden movements for the next couple of hours."

Alistair lifted the shoulder toward his ear, then allowed himself a cautious roll. "Good work."

"Thanks." Venyel responded with a half smile. "You too. Maybe it was a mistake to jump in there like that, but you sure know what you're doing. Almost taking out an alpha wolf in a single blow! Don't tell her I said so, but you might even be better with the shield than the commander."

"I wouldn't go that far." Alistair started to shrug, felt a catch, and thought better of it. "Anyway. She looks impatient; we'd better get a move on."

-x-

Thanks to two more wolf packs, it was already past sunset by the time they reached the first campsite: a clearing just off the side of the road. This was a well-used area, with the remains of a fire ring near the center of the space, and Alistair gratefully dropped his pack and helm beside it. He could not get out of his armor quickly enough; he tossed off his gloves to undo the snaps and buckles, and then the mail shirt was off, followed by the plate on his legs. If only he could remove the boots, too, but it would never do to walk around a strange camp barefoot. Instead, he took advantage of his freedom to stretch and scrub his fingers through his hair.

Then he stopped dead, turned around, saw Pieter and Venyel, fully dressed and watching him with raised brows, and he colored as he realized what a picture he must make, wearing only in an undershirt and leggings, hair sticking straight up, every inch drenched with sweat. Once again, he had forgotten his traveling companions, and all that remained was to get his tent up as quickly as possible so that he could go hide in it.

-x-

"I must say, there's something appealing about this new Alistair. Modesty and Chantry manners be damned, right?" Elissa murmured, and Zevran chuckled. She cast him an amused glance. "I thought Pieter was going to have a heart attack."

"There is a certain practicality to getting the stuff off as quickly as possible," Zevran pointed out. "Not to mention the enhancement to the camp's scenery." Her eyes narrowed, and he laughed. "What? Would you deny it? He's always been quite a decorative fellow."

She scowled at him. "We are _not_ having this conversation." Turning on her heel, she stalked off into the trees to see to her own toilette. Zevran watched her go, his amusement mellowing into thoughtfulness as he remembered the scrap of conversation he had overheard after Alistair took that wolf bite: the concern in her voice, the look in her eyes as she had left him with the healer.

No, not yet, he decided. Neither of them were ready. But the reckoning would come, and he thought it might be soon.

-x-

The second day passed much as the first hand, then blended into the third, uneventful marches interrupted by a few minor fights each day, mostly wolves and one very large bear that they managed to drive off. They met a few human parties on the road, but none were hostile -- or if they were, at least they weren't stupid enough to attack Grey Wardens. Alistair found it refreshing to be treated with respect by travelers. As for the battles, he focused on relearning his role in a formation -- watch for danger, protect the mage, wait for an opening to present itself and then take down the enemy quickly -- and did not incur another wound more serious than bruises. Invigorated by the fresh air and the uncomplicated battles, he could feel his strength returning, his battle forms coming more naturally. Best of all, he had barely even thought of drinking since leaving Vigil's Keep. It seemed a need that had belonged to another life.

Nights fell into a pattern as well. On making camp, the Wardens would raise one tent together, change out of their armor inside, and then pitch the remaining tents before dinner. Although Alistair did not speak much with his fellow Wardens, Pieter and Venyel seemed happy to let him listen in on their conversation, inviting his opinions from time to time, and he developed a guarded liking for them both. Elissa held herself a bit apart, as was appropriate for the commander, although she would often fall into quiet talk with Zevran. But she rarely chatted with the other Wardens, and she seemed to be avoiding Alistair; except for the wolf incident, she did not speak to him beyond basic orders until after dinner on the fourth day, walking up to where he crouched by the fire.

"How are you holding up?" she asked.

Surprised, Alistair stood and turned to look at her, trying not to think about the last time he had been with her like this: discussing the day's march in the light of a campfire, companions quietly talking nearby. "Very well, thanks. I feel stronger every day."

"Your form looks better, too, although am I right in thinking you maintained that better than your stamina?"

He shrugged. "Hard to say. I stayed sharp enough to keep myself alive, but I didn't have much opportunity to improve, going up against third-rate bandits."

Elissa's expression was thoughtful. "We'll have to get you on a workout schedule. Although we don't have many skilled shield men right now, and certainly no one up to your level -- you'll probably end up teaching more than you learn."

Alistair thought about that for a moment. The image of himself as an instructor, passing on his skills to newer Wardens, held surprising appeal. Perhaps, if anyone was interested, he could even instruct them in aspects of Templar discipline -- detecting magic, slowing down mages in battle. Elissa had asked that of him once, long ago; what if he could teach her now instead? He shook himself free of the memory and looked back down at her. "Was there anything else, Commander?"

"Walk with me, Warden." She sent a hand signal to Pieter, who nodded acknowledgement and took up watch at the edge of camp. After another look, this time to Zevran, she set off towards the trees, into the semi-darkness. It was a clear night, the stars already coming out, a half-moon overhead, bright enough that Alistair could see her face when she finally stopped in a small clearing and turned around to look at him. She studied him for a long moment, expression unreadable, then spoke. "Have you had any opportunity to think about our conversation, back at Vigil's Keep?"

He had thought of little else since, the same questions spinning in his mind every night and sometimes during the dull parts of the daily march, but he could only lift his hands, non-committal. "What do you want me to say? Shall I thank you for saving my life? All things considered, it's been a pretty sorry life. I can't say it was necessarily worth the saving. Not at that cost."

"The cost of sparing a man's life?" Elissa's brows went up with a hint of exasperation. "The cost of showing leadership and restraint?"

"The cost." Alistair paced to the nearest tree and back, feet crunching against the dirt. "Let me tell you about the cost. Do you know what it cost me to walk out of that room, to forswear my oath, to leave you? I had to tear myself apart!" A part of him noticed that he was shouting at her, but he could not bring himself to care. Let her string him up for insubordination, if that would make her happy. "I ripped out a piece of my soul with my bare hands! Can you possibly know how that feels?"

He glared at her, and she stared back, eyes blazing, giving the lie to her calm facade. "To give up a part of yourself and realize that it might never return? To be in agony and know that your own choices are the cause? Oh yes, Alistair. I do. I know exactly how that feels."

The fire in her eyes drew him in from the darkness, a moth helpless to resist the pull of light. In a few long steps, he came to her, framed her face with his hands, and then he was kissing her, at last, at last; her soft lips parted and pressed back, one hand around his neck and another laced into his hair, stroking his scalp with her fingertips. He closed his eyes and tasted her sweet breath, and his whole body sang.

It went on forever, until it ended, and Elissa buried her face in his neck with a deep sigh. "Alistair," she murmured, warm against his skin. "Oh Alistair."

He did not speak; he did not trust himself to speak. He feared he might break down and weep, and, starting, might never stop. Instead, he pulled her close and kissed the crown of her head, twice and three times more, breathing in the scent of her hair: sweat, soap, the home he had denied himself for so long. They stood thus for a long, long time.

When she finally pulled away and let her arms fall, her eyes were bright again. "May I invite you into my tent?" she asked.

He had half-expected the invitation, longed for it, dreaded it. He wanted her -- Maker's breath, he wanted her, so badly that he was shaking. But would making love to her heal him? Or would it shatter him, splinter his broken soul into a thousand pieces?

Reluctantly, he shook his head, flooding himself with disappointment and relief in near-equal measures. But the relief was enough greater that he knew his choice was right. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I can't, I--" He sank to his knees, falling at her feet, and wrapped his arms about her legs. His cheek came to rest against her stomach as his eyes burned with the tears he dared not shed. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I just want to put it all back to the way it was. But... I abandoned you and my duty, I let you down, and nothing can erase that. Nothing... If only I could erase it all, forgive and forget, but I can't. I close my eyes and I see his face, all their faces, and I can't. I can't let them go."

Her hand fell on his head, like a Revered Mother blessing her charge. "I wish I could make you understand," she murmured. "All that mattered was stopping the Blight. I couldn't afford to throw away a potential ally. Not even as one as reprehensible as Loghain."

Alistair let her go and rose to his feet, a cold stone settling in his gut. "And if it had been Howe? If Rendon Howe had been the one standing before you, could you have made him a Warden? Would you have given him the chalice, fought by his side, called him brother?" He fairly spit the last word as the rage built up in him again.

"I did." Damn it all, how could she be so bloody _calm_ about this? The cracks that had appeared in her armor were closing, the moment of vulnerability lost and gone. "In the person of his son, Nathanial, who tried to assassinate me, take revenge for killing his father and blackening the family name. Nathanial would have taken my life, but I took his instead and made use of it. Now he is my second, and a finer Warden you will rarely meet."

"It's not the same." Alistair shook his head furiously. "This Nathanial didn't destroy your home and murder your parents in cold blood! I don't--"

"Look at me, Alistair." The force of her command was strong, and he could not resist it; he lifted his chin and saw her, the conviction and determination in her eyes, giving her beauty a bright and terrible cast. "The sworn duty of a Grey Warden is to stand against the darkspawn and stop the Blight, no matter the cost. _No matter the cost._ I did what I had to do. Duncan would have done the same. And if you cannot understand that, then perhaps you were right to leave the Wardens."

"I could always leave again," he said through clenched teeth.

"You could," she replied with a cool nod. "And I will not hold you, but first we must complete our errand in Denerim. May I ask that of you, at least?"

He would have gone to the ends of the earth for her, once. But this... Too many words, old wounds, and emotions cancelled each other out, and in the end, he could only nod. He owed her his life, whether he wanted it or not; he could do this much for her in return. "You have my word."

She acknowledged him with a wave of her hand. "Please return to camp. I'll be along shortly." He nodded again, and left.


	4. Chapter 4

He sensed Denerim long before he saw it: the clattering of wagons on their way to market, the smell of rotten fish rising from the bay, the unease that settled into his spirit. By the time the tower of Fort Drakon loomed overhead, Alistair was well and truly unhappy. Why had he gone along with this madness? He imagined stepping through the palace doors, seeing Anora on the throne, bending the knee and making nice. The very idea made his head throb.

Just outside the city gates, Elissa called a halt, and the team gathered around her, Alistair taking a position at the edge of the group. He wasn't really preserving the option to bolt for the nearest tavern. "Zevran." Elissa turned to address him. "Please take Pieter and Venyel directly to the palace and arrange an audience with Queen Anora. I have an errand to complete first. Alistair, you're with me."

A flash of disappointment crossed Zevran's face, quashed by a wry look from Elissa. "Aye, Commander," he said. "This way, fellows." With a wave of his arm, he gathered up the other Wardens and led them into the city. Elissa waited until they were well out of sight, and then she turned to Alistair.

"Now we see what I brought you to Denerim to see." A soft smile, and then she took him through the gate as well, into the grand square marking the entrance to Ferelden's capital. It was larger than Alistair remembered it, and cleaner. Elissa stopped next to the gatehouse and laid her hand on its stone wall. "We made our final stand against the archdemon here," she commented. "The damage to the city was considerable. The Warden's compound was razed, and you'll barely recognize Arl Eamon's estate." With another glance up at him, she gestured forward. "This way."

He took a few more steps into the square, then stopped dead. For there, smack in the center, where none could miss it, was a statue, carved of dark granite, larger than life, depicting three men. Grey Wardens, all, weapons drawn as if to defend the gate. And the tallest of them, the man in the middle, wore Duncan's face.

He walked towards it, each step slow and deliberate, unable to look away. "Maker's breath," he whispered. "Is it..."

"It is." Elissa's voice was gentle, and sad. "One of Anora's first acts as queen was to commission a monument to the Grey Wardens, so that Ferelden might never again forget. And she made it a priority, too; even with all else that needed to be built, it was complete within a year. Duncan's likeness is quite good, isn't it? It took a small army of artists, working from the memories of those who knew him, but in the end it was worth the effort."

Alistair could only nod; his throat had closed and his eyes filled with tears, blurring his vision until he blinked them away, not caring who might see them spilling onto his cheeks. It was Duncan to the life: chin lifted, eyes noble, dagger drawn and a hand on the hilt of his sword. The sculptors had captured his memory perfectly.

Elissa laid a hand on his shoulder. "Read the inscription."

Swiping at his eyes with the back of his hand, Alistair leaned closer to the base of the sculpture and, after several attempts at clearing his throat, read the words aloud in a husky voice. "In memory of the Grey Wardens of Ferelden, who sacrificed themselves in the Fifth Blight to keep all Thedas safe. May their names be remembered for all time." He turned back to Elissa, eyes widened with wonderment. "Their names." He reached forth and ran a finger down the first column. "Duncan, Commander of the Grey. Riordan of Highever. Alain of West Hills..." His voice trailed off as he continued reading down the list. Everyone was there, all the brothers he had come to know in the months between his conscription and Ostegar. As he approached the end, he stopped, turning to look at Elissa with surprise. "Daveth of Denerim?"

She nodded. "He was one of us, if only for an instant. The other names I got from Riordan's records, but I wanted to honor his sacrifice as well. "I couldn't quite bring myself to include Jory, though." She made a quick face, then gestured back to the monument. "There's one more."

He felt a scowl building. Loghain, of course, it had to be, Anora would never have agreed otherwise -- he should have known this was too good to be true. He whipped his head back, ready to lash out, scratch the letters away with his sword, or his bare hands... and then his anger melted away into confusion as he saw the final name:

Alistair of Redcliffe.

"What?" It was little more than an escaping breath as he reached out and touched his own name, chiseled into the cool, polished granite with the rest, an impostor among heroes. He was a deserter, a coward, a child, a fool. What business did he have here? He looked at Elissa, shaking his head, and his next word was a whispered cry of agony. "Why?"

She spread her hands. "Because you belong there."

He shook his head. "No." His throat had tightened again, he could barely breathe. "No, no, I don't, I--"

"You belong there." Her firm response brooked no argument as she raised her chin. "Because this was your victory, too. Because I could have never gathered the treaty armies without you at my side, watching my back, being my conscience, believing in me. Because you stuck to your principles, all the way to the end. And because--" She stopped, looked away, took a deep shuddering breath. "Because for all I knew, you were dead, as much a victim of the Blight and Loghain's treachery as the others. And so I honored you, in the only way I had left."

He heard the pain in that last admission, saw her shoulders trembling. The last frozen edges of his heart thawed at last, flooding him with his love for her, and he rested his hands on her shoulders, turning her towards him. She looked back up, eyes gleaming bright.

"Redemption, Alistair," she murmured, the tenderness in her voice almost beyond bearing. "It is the way of the Wardens. We don't care who you were, or what came before. All that matters is your service, your sacrifice."

With a hard swallow, he nodded. "I think... I think I see now." He dropped his hands and turned back to the monument, looking over the names again. "So then, why..."

"Why is Loghain not listed as well?" She said nothing for a long moment, and then she sighed. "I couldn't. This is not his place. Anora had a statue of him commissioned -- in a courtyard across from the Orlesian Embassy; never let it be said that Her Majesty has no sense of humor -- and his name will be remembered in other ways, at other times. But to include him here, among the very men he sought to destroy?" She shook her head. "The First tried to argue with me about it, but I brought him around to my way of thinking."

Silence fell between them for a moment more, but it was more comfortable now, the awkwardness of the past week lifting like a morning fog. When Alistair spoke again, he felt the last traces of his anger fading. Not gone; it would never be gone. But maybe he could live with it now, keep it from consuming him alive. "You were right. I needed to see this."

Her answer was a smile, warm, tinged with relief. "I'm glad you agree. Now. I must be off to meet the queen. You are at your leisure for the rest of the day, Warden. Our compound in the city was destroyed in the Battle of Denerim, and we have not yet been able to rebuild. When he repaired his estate, Arl Eamon was generous enough to provide us with a small barracks, and that is where we will quarter tonight. Meet me there in time for dinner."

"Yes, Commander. Thank you." Alistair touched his breast and bowed his head, and she returned the gesture. Then he turned back to the monument and looked up, finally allowing himself to revisit his memories of good times and bad.

-x-

Zevran walked through the dusty streets of Denerim, alert for the bands of cutpurses who lurked in the city's darker alleys after sunset. After dodging a particularly unsavory-looking fellow, he emerged into the entry square and set his sights on his target: Alistair, who was kneeling in front of the Grey Warden monument, eyes raised to the men's faces. Zevran walked up to Alistair's side and cleared his throat.

"What?" Alistair did not move, not even to look at him. But there was a calmness to the question, abrupt as it was.

"I thought you might still be here." Zevran turned to the monument, attempting to examine it with fresh eyes. He paid his respects whenever he visited the city, but he hadn't looked so closely in years. "What do you think?"

Alistair's shoulders raised with a long, slow breath. "I'm glad this is here, and I'm glad I came here to see it." Looking closer, Zevran could see that Alistair's eyes were red, his cheeks marked by the trails of tears. "I've needed this for a long time."

Zevran raised an eyebrow at him. "What did you need?"

"A hard dose of reality." Alistair bowed his head, a hand to his chest. "I was so busy being angry that I forgot what really matters about the Wardens, and the sacrifices we make." He glanced up at Zevran. "You asked me why I couldn't let it go. I thought that letting go would be the same as forgetting them. But I was wrong. I think, maybe, now, I can move on without forgetting." He sighed. "I don't know if that made any sense."

"Oh, it does." Zevran clasped his hands behind his back. "Perfect sense, really."

"It helps to know that I don't have to forgive Loghain's treachery, or think of him as a dear brother." Jaw clenching, he rose to his feet and nodded at the monument. "Now I see a middle ground. He damned us and then he saved us; perhaps it balances out. The man was a bloody hero, after all. I can even accept that there's a statue of him around here, somewhere. Just don't make me visit it."

Zevran chuckled. "The teyrn will be sad to miss your offering, I'm sure." Then he became more serious. "I assume she didn't tell you that the memorial was her idea in the first place." Alistair looked at him, brow arched, and Zevran nodded. "After Anora was crowned, and she acknowledged Elissa's leadership in ending the Blight, she offered a boon. And of all the things Elissa could have asked for, she requested that the Wardens not be forgotten. Hence, the memorial." He waved up at the sculpture. "She spent day and night with the artisans, making sure they got it just right. It wasn't easy, but she did it."

"None of this was easy for her." The sadness and affection in Alistair's voice were plain. "So many things that I drank to keep muddled are clear to me now." He looked down, then around him, finally seeming to mark the darkness of the sky. "Oh. It's later than I thought. We should go. Sorry to keep you." He ran his hand over the pedestal one last time, then stepped away. "So, now we make for the estate of Arl Eamon. What happened to the Grey Warden compound? Surely after ten years we could have rebuilt."

"Ah, no." Zevran clucked his tongue. "The darkspawn targeted your compound for especial defilement. The Circle did its best, even enlisted the help of the Dalish, but it could be a generation before the land is habitable again. Elissa is searching for a new site; in the meantime, we are the arl's guests."

"Ah." Alistair made a show of examining the back of his hands. "Is the arl in residence, do you know?"

"I believe so." Zevran raised an eyebrow. "Well, you've missed dinner. Do you wish to make straight for the garrison? I know a back way in."

"No." Letting his hands fall, Alistair glanced to the sky. "I've a good track record with facing down my demons today; might as well take care of this one, too."

-x-

The market square of Denerim seemed the same but for newer buildings and fresh paint, but as Elissa had promised, Alistair found Arl Eamon's estate much changed. It seemed smaller, for one thing, the entryway less grand, the second kitchen and dining wings replaced by a larger courtyard with more flowerbeds. The changes continued inside, as well: simpler furnishings, construction mainly of wood rather than stone. As Zevran pointed him down the hallway, in the direction of what had once been the arl's study, Alistair felt his pulse kick up a notch, and he wondered whom he was most nervous about seeing again.

After a pause at an ewer to splash and dry his face, he made a right turn, and there was the arl, a hand resting on the edge of his desk, speaking with Elissa. Both of them, together; Alistair supposed that was fitting. Then he looked closer and stopped just short of the doorway, drawn up by shock. Neither Zevran nor Elissa had changed much to his eyes in the past ten years, but somehow Arl Eamon had transformed into an old man: hair thinning and faded to a pale silver, shoulders stooped, eyes sunken, skin wrinkled and grey, a look of wear and care about his face.

Elissa noticed Alistair first, and she lifted a hand to Eamon's arm with a soft word. Eamon turned, and his face went an even paler shade. "Alistair!" And then he was striding across the room, rushing through the door, hands out, gathering Alistair into a fierce embrace. "Alistair. Thank the Maker you're all right."

Too surprised to respond in kind at first -- Eamon had never shown him more affection than a pat on the shoulder or the head, and that not since he was a boy -- Alistair tentatively returned the hug. "I'm-- sorry to have worried you, ser."

Eamon let go and stepped away, hands still on Alistair's arms. "When Elissa told me, I could scarcely believe... but here you are, and I'm glad."

"So am I," Alistair replied softly. Overwhelmed by the emotion in Eamon's eyes, he dropped his gaze and stepped back; Eamon cleared his throat, and when he spoke again, his voice was gruff.

"I'm afraid you've missed tonight's meal, but please, dine with me tomorrow. Your commander has already agreed to stay another day."

"I would be honored." Alistair bowed, despite the butterflies that sprang up in his stomach. "Thank you."

"Good." Eamon smiled. "Ah, my boy, it's so good to see you. Now, off to the kitchens with you -- I instructed the cook to set something aside."

"Thank you." Alistair caught Elissa's eye. "Commander, if I could speak with you for a moment?"

"Yes, of course. I'll walk you to the kitchen. My lord." She exchanged nods with Eamon, then fell into step with Alistair as they headed back down the hall.

A few paces from the kitchen door, he stopped her with a hand to the shoulder. "I need to thank you, again. I still have much to think about, but the turmoil of my spirit is gone. And..." He took a deep, cleansing breath, letting his shoulders rise and fall. "I wanted to ask if your, ah. Offer. From the other night. Whether it's still, perhaps, maybe, open."

She raised her eyebrows, parted her lips. "Are you sure?"

He let out a shaky laugh. "Andraste's flaming sword, no, I'm not sure. I'm not sure of anything at all." Lifting a hand to her face, he ran the side of his index finger along her cheek, and her eyes fluttered shut. "But... I'll be damned if I care."

Leaning close to him, she brought her mouth to his ear. "Come to the barracks in an hour," she murmured. "Last door on the right." She kissed his cheek, catching the corner of his mouth, and then she was gone.

-x-

The appointed time arrived, and Alistair stood at the door, his fingers resting lightly on its smooth wooden frame. He had eaten a little, then bathed and changed, getting out of his armor and into a suede tunic and pair of casual breeches that Zevran had acquired for him in Kirkwall. He took a long, slow breath and closed his eyes as he thought back to the first time he had asked to spend the night with her, at camp on their way out of Orzammar. He had been terrified, then -- certain she would say no, positive he would make a fool of himself, unsure where the path of loving her might lead. But that was nothing compared to the fears that gripped him tonight. This time, he knew exactly what awaited him on the other side of the door. Was he ready to accept it? Could he survive if he lost it again? He'd talked himself into and out of keeping this appointment half a dozen times in the last fifteen minutes alone.

But in the end, he feared not making the attempt even more. And so he gathered his courage and rapped his knuckles against the door, twice, softly.

"Enter," came the muffled reply. Alistair turned the knob and let the door swing open, then stepped through and closed it behind him. She was there, seated on the edge of her bed, still dressed for her dinner with the arl. As he approached, she stood up, and he saw a look of guarded relief cross her face. "I wasn't sure you'd come."

"Neither was I," he admitted. He came closer to her and lightly caught her hands in his. Their fingers flexed together, and he tightened his grip, sparks tickling his palms. His breath came faster as he studied her face. "Maker's breath, you're still so beautiful. I can hardly believe that I'm really here, with you."

"Believe it," she whispered, and then she kissed him. Her lips were a balm, bringing him back to life, healing the wounds he had spent so much effort to keep open. He let go of her hands and brought his arms around her, pulling her tight, so close, and she pressed her body into his with a sigh.

He broke the kiss to lean their foreheads together, rubbed the tips of their noses together. "Oh my love, how I have missed you."

She froze for a second, then pulled away, eyes round. "Love? You... love me?"

Alistair bowed his head. "Even when I hated you, I loved you." Glancing up through his lashes, he swallowed down his fears to speak truth. "My dear Elissa. I will always love you. Always."

"Oh." She laid a hand on his cheek, lifted his face to meet her eyes. "Alistair, I-- I was angry, too, you know. Angry, and hurt that you left me to face the archdemon alone. And I held onto those feelings for a very long time. But neither did I ever stop loving you." She pulled him down and kissed him again, harder now, her tongue sliding into his mouth. Burying one hand in her hair, the other sweeping up and down her back, Alistair kissed her in return, felt her tremble, a groan pulled from his throat as she ran her hands up underneath his shirt, caressing the bare skin beneath.

Yet again, he dragged himself away, long enough for her to pull his shirt over his head; meanwhile, he started fumbling with the laces that held hers in place. "Damn," he muttered, working at the tiny, tight knot, fingers clumsy with anticipation and desire.

She laughed in answer. "Let me," she said, and within a moment the knot was undone and her shirt removed. He brought his hands to her bare waist and reveled in the feel of her skin beneath his rough palms, then skimmed then up her torso until they rested on her breasts. Encircling them, he lowered his mouth to hers and plunged within, tasting her, feeling her lift in response, winding her hands around his neck, gripping, clinging.

He never wanted it to end, and yet he wanted to move on, too, get the rest of her clothes off, ease her down on the bed, feel her surrounding him. She seemed to be of a mind with him as her hands drifted down, cupping his buttocks before seeking the drawstring that held his pants up. Then she paused; he broke long enough to speak a single word: "Please."

Without further hesitation, she pulled on the cord and it came free, allowing his breeches to fall to the floor. He stepped out of them as she removed her skirts, and now only their undergarments came between them. Bringing his arms around her, he pulled her tight against his chest, cupping the back of her head in his hand as she laid her cheek next to his. Skin on skin, her perfect muscles curving into his embrace, their bodies forming a single being, one that had been broken into separate pieces for too long.

And then she was taking him by the hand, leading him toward the narrow bunk in the corner of the room, pulling him down atop her and drawing him into another kiss, long and hot and sweet. By unspoken agreement, they divested themselves of their smallclothes, and oh Maker she was lovely: her skin smooth and warm, her breast filling his hand, her cleft slick and ready, her soft moans the sweetest music he had ever heard. Her hand came around his length, encircled him, tugged gently, and her touch almost undid him; he crushed her to him with a gasp, then took her mouth yet again.

"My love, oh my love," he groaned, lips against hers, a catch in his voice. "I want... I don't know if I can wait much longer."

She shifted into place and brought her knees up his waist. "Then don't," she murmured, and then, with her hands and a thrust of her hips, she brought him home.

-x-

The morning dawned clear and chilly, and the Guerrin estate slowly came to life: guards changing shifts, cooks preparing the food for the day, servants scurrying from place to place, carrying out their duties. Zevran took advantage of the extra day in town to sleep in, strolling into the Warden's dining room for breakfast well past nine. Given the late hour, he'd expected to eat alone; instead, he was greeted by a sight that lightened his spirits: Elissa and Alistair, seated across from one another in the far corner of the room, the remains of a large meal spread out between them, smiling into one another's eyes. He backed away to give them privacy, but then Alistair saw him and waved him over. Grabbing a cup of coffee and some toast from the sideboard, Zevran went to them, taking a seat on the bench next to Elissa.

"Good morning," Alistair said, around a mouthful of egg; he swallowed, then nodded to Zevran's plate. "That's all you're eating?"

"I prefer a light breakfast." Zevran favored him with a grin. "An advantage of not being Joined: I never did develop the legendary appetites of the Wardens."

Alistair's smile broadened as he caught Elissa's eye, and to Zevran's surprise, it was Elissa who blushed, a light wash of red staining her cheeks. Zevran bit his lip to keep from laughing; if there'd been any question regarding what his former companions had gotten up to last night, there was his answer. He took a careful drink of his coffee to give Elissa a moment to compose herself, then propped his elbows on the table. "So, Commander, what's our agenda for the day?"

She turned to look at him, back to her usual calm self, although the hardness that had long lurked beneath the façade was faded; only now, in its absence, did Zevran notice how pronounced that edge had been. "I have another meeting with Queen Anora this afternoon, but neither of you need attend. Pieter and Venyel are visiting the Alienage and the City Watch, meeting with Shianni and the captain of the guard to evaluate potential recruits; Alistair, if you would join them?"

A wary look passed over Alistair's face, but it was gone almost as soon as it appeared. "Of course. When do we leave?"

"Soon. I believe the first appointment is at noon."

Alistair took one last swig of his coffee and wiped his mouth with a napkin. "I should finish getting ready, then. See you at dinner." He rose from the bench and leaned across the table to graze her temple with a kiss, then nodded to Zevran as he turned to go. Zevran watched him walk out of the room and marveled at the change in his friend -- Alistair's head was held high, a confidence had come into his step, and his shoulders were both squared and visibly broader than they had been only two weeks ago.

Elissa seemed to have much the same thought; she turned to Zevran, her eyes warm. "Thank you for saving him."

He smiled at her. "Ah, well. I suspect we can share the credit for this one." He covered her hand with his, and she squeezed his fingers in response. "You have yet to give me a task. Do you have something for me?"

"Yes." She sat up straighter and pulled her hand free. "Orders from Weisshaupt were waiting for me yesterday, and we need to talk about them. Let's go to Eamon's study; we won't be interrupted there. Bring your breakfast, if you like."

-x-

The last of the plates were cleared away, and Arl Eamon leaned back in his chair, a glass of wine in his hand. He had spent the dinner hour catching Alistair up on the events of the past ten years, and Alistair had listened with more interest than he had expected to muster. Politics had never been his favorite thing, but now that he had met some of the players, he found the stories more compelling, particularly with the passage of so much time. Of his own time away, he had spoken little; he was not particularly keen to remember those years, or share them in any detail, and Eamon had not pressed, not even raising an eyebrow at Alistair's request for water rather than wine or ale. Someday he might lift a glass again, but not just yet.

"So, my boy." Eamon swirled the red wine around its glass. "I understand from the commander that you have a decision to make."

Alistair nodded. "Two decisions, really. Do I stay with the Grey Wardens, and if I stay, do I serve in Ferelden, or elsewhere?"

Eamon leaned forward. "If you choose to leave, then I'm sure we could find a place for you. I don't suppose you have any interest in going back to the templars, but the knights of Redcliffe can always use another good man. With Connor in the Tower, I've named Teagan my heir, and the administration of the Castle has been in his hands for some years now, so it would be his decision, ultimately. But I'm sure he'd be happy to have you."

"Thank you, my lord." Alistair had to swallow back a surge of emotion. "I'm... touched, that you would make such an offer. But there is no need. I belong with the Wardens."

"Well, good." Eamon smiled. "I suspect I'm not the only one glad to hear that, am I, Commander?"

Alistair turned around in his seat and saw Elissa standing in the doorway, still in her armor, and he fought back a blush. So much for the speech he had prepared.

"Very glad," she answered, stepping into the room. "Have you finished with dinner?"

"Just now," Eamon said. "And I believe it is time for me to retire. Alistair, I look forward to speaking with you more on the morrow. Commander." He and Elissa traded places: he standing and leaving the room, she lowering herself into his high wooden chair.

"So. You're staying." Her hands curled around the arms of the chair. "Are you certain?"

"Yes." Alistair rested his arms on the table, tenting his fingers. It seemed he would get to make his speech after all. Damn. "I... never had a family, before the Wardens. Arl Eamon was good to me, in his own way, but it was mostly out of affection for my father. Duncan and the Wardens accepted me... for me. They were my family and my home; they took me in at need, as they have taken in so many others. It is a gift, and I spurned it too lightly before. I will not make that mistake again. Loghain..." He pursed his lips together, and shook his head. "I was wrong. You and Riordan were right. And I'm sorry I was such a child about it."

"I'm sorry, too," she said, reaching across the table to take his hand. He curved his fingers around hers. "I should never have pushed you into that position in front of the entire Landsmeet. And I'm especially sorry that Riordan didn't talk to us earlier, so we could have made a decision in advance with all the facts in mind. I lay a significant portion of the blame for this on his shoulders, you know. But that's in the past, and we're talking about the future." She sat up straighter but did not let him go. "Have you decided where you will serve?"

Alistair squeezed her hand, then pulled away. "That, I fear, is the harder question. And one I would rather not discuss in the arl's dining room. Is there somewhere else we can go?"

"My rooms? I'd like to get out of this armor, if I could."

They both stood, and Alistair followed her down the hallways, through the narrow courtyard that separated the Warden's compound from the rest of the estate, and into her quarters. Without a word, he assisted her with the belts and buckles that held her heavy plate in place, and then she ushered him into the sitting area on the far side of her bedchamber, taking his hands as they sat side by side on the couch. "Now, tell me."

He took a deep breath. It was hard to concentrate with her warm hands in his, reminding him of the long, sweet night they had spent in this very room: touching, talking, making love, and, eventually, collapsing in a pile of contentment to let sleep take them away. But somehow, he gathered his thoughts together and began to speak.

"Today was... instructive." Alistair looked down at their joined hands, then back up. "It was good to see Shianni, and to feel like a part of the Wardens again. But everywhere I went, I felt like people were watching. Remembering who I was, whispering, staring. At least two different people asked if I had returned to take the throne!" He shook his head. "When the people of Ferelden look at me, they don't see a Grey Warden. They see a historical figure, or a symbol, and I'm not comfortable with that. I still have a lot to figure out about who I am, what I want to be. And that will be difficult, maybe even impossible, if I'm carrying King Maric's legacy everywhere I go. And Cailan's legacy, and Loghain's, and my own. So a part of me is eager to take Philipe's offer to join him in Orlais, at least for a time. But there is one difficultly." He leaned forward and pressed his lips to her cheek. "To leave you now, when I've only just found you again... I don't know if I'm strong enough. I can think of nothing else that would hold me in Ferelden, but it is a powerful force."

Her answering nod was slow and thoughtful. "Have you decided, then? Or do you need more time?"

"I've decided." He laid a loose fist between her breasts, over her heart, felt its thudding beat. "I love you. I'll miss you, terribly. But for now, leaving is what I need to do. I'm sorry."

Elissa covered his hand with hers. "Don't be." She leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth. "My love, I think you are right to go, but I could not ask it of you. So I'm glad you came to the decision on your own."

Bringing his hands up to her face, he drew her in for another kiss, ready to linger, to begin memorizing the shape of her mouth, but she drew away and laid a finger over his lips. "Before you make the decision final, there is something you should know. New orders arrived from Weisshaupt yesterday evening." Leaning back, she let her hands fall into her lap. "I, too, have been called to Orlais, to take command at Jader. Philipe will stay in Ferelden to serve as second for Nathanial, who will be promoted to Warden Commander."

Alistair raised an eyebrow. "An Orlesian and a Howe, in charge of Amaranthine? The Landsmeet might not care for that."

"Some may object." Elissa shrugged. "But Nathanial has put much effort into repairing his family's name. Fergus will support him, and the change has already received Anora's blessing; the rest will fall into line, at least in public. Nathanial will make a good commander, and certainly a better administrator than I ever have. The fact is, I've been here too long, and I'm ready for a new challenge." She leaned forward and looked at him, studying his face. "Would you come with me to Jader, then? Or is our history a part of the burden you need to escape for a time?"

"Need you even ask?" Alistair took her hands again and grasped them tightly, lightheaded with relief, standing, pulling her to her feet. Head and heart, honor and duty: all had come into alignment at last, leading him down a single path. "I will join you."

"Good." Elissa drew him into an embrace, resting her head against his chest. Alistair wrapped his arms around her and resolved to never again let go.

**Epilogue**

The next month passed in a flurry of activity: packing and meetings and formal audiences of every kind as Elissa prepared to leave and Nathanial prepared to take her place. They had, in fact, all been so busy that the appointed day of departure took Zevran by surprise when it finally arrived. The farewell dinner would be tonight, and the courtyard was already bustling with activity. Zevran made his way up the battlements of the keep, thinking to snatch a moment alone before the festivities commenced, but he found that he had been beaten to the punch: Alistair stood there, hands resting on the wall, gaze far out on the horizon.

"Saying goodbye to the land of your birth?" Zevran asked. Alistair turned with a nod. "You arrived so recently; it must be hard to leave."

Alistair shrugged, a wry smile on his lips. "It's like you said on the boat: home is where they have to take you in. Ferelden didn't do that; the Wardens did. Elissa did. So did you." He tilted his head. "Sure you won't reconsider Elissa's offer of a place in Jader?"

Zevran shook his head. "Elissa was able to give me freedom to operate as I pleased; the closer she comes to the center of power, the fewer liberties she can allow. Nathaniel has a good understanding of my relationship to the Wardens, and so I will serve him here." He smiled, showing all his teeth. "But you will see me on my travels. This, I can guarantee." He stepped closer to Alistair, lowering his voice. "They're grooming her to take over as First, you know."

Alistair nodded. "I know. Not that she's come out and said as much, but... yes."

"Then you must also know that the chances of her returning permanently are rather slim." Zevran shuddered. "You'll be shipped off to the Anderfels to live among rocks and Blight wolves. I can imagine no worse fate."

"Then you don't have much imagination," Alistair replied. "I can picture much worse than that." His smile faded, and he turned away, eyes back on the horizon, and his next words came as though from a great distance. "It wasn't so long ago that I was _living_ worse." After a moment of silence, he looked back at Zevran, voice stronger. "Did I ever thank you for saving my life?"

"Not in so many words, no." Zevran shrugged. "But seeing you live has been thanks enough."

"Not for me." Alistair put his hands on Zevran's shoulders. "I owe you a debt I can never repay."

"Careful," Zevran said casually. "I may take you up on that someday." Alistair chuckled, and Zevran pulled him into a quick embrace. "Be well, my friend."

"And you." Alistair slapped him on the back as he pulled away. "See you downstairs."

"Indeed." Zevran did not watch him go; instead, he went to the wall of the battlement and gazed over the lands of Amaranthine and beyond, contemplating their future, and his.


End file.
